samurai’s named, but tell her mama-san owner that I don’t expect the girl will have the bad manners to mistrust my choice for her. Tell the owner also that Kiku is a Lady of the First Class of Mishima and not Yedo or Osaka or Kyoto,” Toranaga added genially, “so I expect to pay Mishima prices and not Yedo or Osaka or Kyoto prices.”
“Yes, Sire, of course.”
Toranaga moved his shoulder to ease the ache, shifting his swords.
“May I massage it for you, Sire? Or send for Suwo?”
“No, thank you. I’ll see Suwo later.” Toranaga got up and relieved himself with great pleasure, then sat down again. He wore a short, light silk kimono, blue patterned, and the simple straw sandals. His fan was blue and decorated with his crest.
The sun was low, rain clouds building heavily.
“It’s vast to be alive,” he said happily. “I can almost hear the rain waiting to be born.”
“Yes,” she said.
Toranaga thought a moment. Then he said as a poem:
Mariko obediently put her mind to work to play the poem game with him, so popular with most samurai, spontaneously twisting the words of the poem that he had made up, adapting them, making another from his. After a moment she replied:
“Well said! Yes, very well said!” Toranaga looked at her contentedly, enjoying what he saw. She was dressed in a pale green kimono with patterns of bamboo, a dark green obi and orange sunshade. There was a marvelous sheen to the blue-black hair, which was piled high under her wide-brimmed hat. He remembered nostalgically how they had all—even the Dictator Goroda himself—wanted her when she was thirteen and her father, Akechi Jinsai, had first presented this, his eldest daughter, at Goroda’s court. And how Nakamura, the Taiko-to-be, had begged the Dictator to give her to him, and then how Goroda had laughed, and publicly called him his randy little monkey general, and told him to “stick to fighting battles, peasant, don’t fight to stick patrician holes!” Akechi Jinsai had openly scorned Nakamura, his rival for Goroda’s favor, the main reason why Nakamura had delighted in smashing him. And why also Nakamura had delighted in watching Buntaro squirm for years, Buntaro who had been given the girl to cement an alliance between Goroda and Toda Hiro-matsu. I wonder, Toranaga asked himself mischievously, looking at her, I wonder if Buntaro were dead, would she consent to be one of my consorts? Toranaga had always preferred experienced women, widows or divorced wives, but never too pretty or too wise or too young or too well-born, so never too much trouble and always grateful.
He chuckled to himself. I’d never ask her because she’s everything I don’t want in a consort—except that her age is perfect.
“Sire?” she asked.
“I was thinking about your poem, Mariko-san,” he said, even more blandly. Then added:
She said in answer:
He laughed and bowed with mock humility. “I concede victory, Mariko-sama. What will the favor be? A fan? Or a scarf for your hair?”
“Thank you, Sire,” she replied. “Yes, whatever pleases you.”
“Ten thousand koku yearly to your son.”
“Oh, Sire, we don’t deserve such favor!”
“You won a victory. Victory and duty must be rewarded. How old is Saruji now?”
“Fifteen—almost fifteen.”
“Ah, yes—he was betrothed to one of Lord Kiyama’s granddaughters recently, wasn’t he?”
“Yes, Sire. It was in the eleventh month last year, the Month of the White Frost. He’s presently at Osaka with Lord Kiyama.”
“Good. Ten thousand koku, beginning at once. I will send the authority with tomorrow’s mail. Now, enough of poems, please give me your opinion.”
“My opinion, Sire, is that we are all safe in your hands, as the land is safe in your hands.”
“I want you to be serious.”
“Oh, but I am, Sire. I thank you for the favor to my son. That makes everything perfect. I believe whatever you do will be right. By the Madon—yes, by the Madonna, I swear I believe that.”
“Good. But I still want your opinion.”
Immediately she replied, without a care in the world, as an equal to an equal. “First, you should bring Lord Zataki secretly back to your side. I’d surmise you either know how to do this already, or more probably, you have a secret agreement with your half brother, and you prompted his mythical ‘defection’ in the first place to lull Ishido into a false position. Next: You’ll never attack first. You never have, you’ve always counseled patience, and you only attack when you’re sure to win, so publicly ordering Crimson Sky at once is only another diversion. Next, timing: My opinion is you should do what you will do, pretend to order Crimson Sky but never commit it. This will throw Ishido into confusion because, obviously, spies here and in Yedo will report your plan, and he’ll have to scatter his force like a covey of partridge, in filthy weather, to prepare for a threat that’ll never materialize. Meanwhile you’ll spend the next two months gathering allies, to undermine Ishido’s alliances and break up his coalition, which you must do by any means. And of course, you must tempt Ishido out of Osaka Castle. If you don’t, Sire, he will win, or at least, you will lose the Shogunate. You—”
“I’ve already made my position clear on that,” Toranaga rapped, no longer amused. “And you forget yourself.”
Mariko said carelessly and happily, “I have to talk secrets today, Sire, because of the hostages. They’re a knife in your heart.”
“What about them?”
